


Scarlet Inside

by Yakkai



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Paint, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yakkai/pseuds/Yakkai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I remember Damascus, long before it was named that. Before there was a single human soul there, before the temples and mosques, it was trees and flowers and sand.”</p><p>Sam is lulled into a different sort of trance by Castiel’s peaceful voice. The soft bristles of the paintbrush are still working at his skin in small, soft movements. It’s amazing, Cas revealing these things to him. Sometimes Sam forgets, looking at Castiel, that he’s an angel, an ancient being that’s lived for thousands of years. He looks like a man, plain as any other, his form only hinting at the bombinating grace within him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarlet Inside

**Author's Note:**

> For Julia. Title from Clannad.

Sam lay sprawled flat on the bed, his naked form stretched wide and empty, a perfect blank canvas in the spread of his skin and the sinew of his muscles.

He wasn’t sure at first, not at all, but Cas soothed him with gentle words and the drag of a dry paintbrush on his bare flesh. He knew, then, that Cas was going to make it feel good, not at all the slimy drip of chilled paint Sam previously imagined.

“It will be cold, at first. But it will warm to your skin.”

Sam hears the wooden tap of a paintbrush against a glass jar, delicate ringing sound, and then moments later he feels the paint on him. He gasps, tenses, because it’s cold. Cas swipes the brush in a long motion, and it glides smoothly on his skin. The sensation is decadent, bordering on sinful, and Sam tries very hard not to think about how good it feels.

“You’re tense. This will be easier if you relax.”

The gravel of Castiel’s voice vibrates through him, and then he feels Castiel’s firm hand on his shoulder blade, warm and assuring.

It’s been so long since Sam was naked like this for anyone, since he was vulnerable in this way. He’s never been naked like this for something non-sexual. It’s strange, but he trusts this to Cas and his sure hands. 

He feels the bed dip where Castiel’s knee presses onto it, and then the paintbrush swipes on his skin again. It’s mesmerizing, and Sam closes his eyes and lets his body feel only that touch. There are a few light, quick strokes, and then Castiel speaks.

“I remember Damascus, long before it was named that. Before there was a single human soul there, before the temples and mosques, it was trees and flowers and sand.”

Sam is lulled into a different sort of trance by Castiel’s peaceful voice. The soft bristles of the paintbrush are still working at his skin in small, soft movements. It’s amazing, Cas revealing these things to him. Sometimes Sam forgets, looking at Castiel, that he’s an angel, an ancient being that’s lived for thousands of years. He looks like a man, plain as any other, his form only hinting at the bombinating grace within him.

Cas moves away from him and Sam hears the tinkling of the jar again, the hushed noise of feet on carpet, and then the contact returns, chill and wet.

“It smelled sweet, like jasmine blossoms. It was peaceful.”

The brush glides over the small of his back, near the swell of his ass, and Sam shivers with the touch. Either Castiel doesn’t notice or pretends not to, because he continues his painting. Sam becomes aware of the smell of the paint, perfumy and chemical all at once.

The paintbrush is set on his skin, and Sam is about to ask when he feels both Castiel’s hands slide through the paint and smear it about. The touch is sensuous, gentle, but insistent. Castiel was clearing the slate, starting over.

Castiel stands up from the bed. Sam can hear him dragging the newspaper with the paint jars set on it closer to the bed. Cas plucks the old brush off his skin, and Sam hears a new one being dipped into the paint and tapped off.

Again, the feather-light bristles slip against his back. The motions Cas uses now are frantic, fast paced, quick, jumping strokes. To Sam, it’s the sensation of leaves being added to a tree, one by one. 

“Heaven looks much different to angels than it does to your eyes,” Cas stops, lifts the brush from Sam for a moment and is silent for a time. “It’s easiest to describe as threads of light.” Cas punctuates this with long, sliding strokes, pushing firmly into Sam.

“They’re everywhere. They vibrate at different frequencies, each one. I suppose you could liken the sound to singing. Every heaven is a thread.”

Sam’s breath hitches in his throat. Castiel had never spoken of heaven like this, and lately he had been more hesitant to than ever before. And yet here he is, speaking so freely as he dips the brush in paint and whorls it on Sam’s pliant flesh.

The brush skids to a stop and almost seems to jitter near Sam’s shoulder blade. It is as though it’s seeing potential, realizing something. Sam feels strong hands on him again, smoothing the paint out. It’s difficult, so difficult not to react to Castiel’s soft touches. They’re bordering on loving, downright worshipful, and it makes Sam terribly glad he’s lying on his stomach. He can feel the incessant press of his cock into his abdomen.

The brush quickens over his shoulder blades in smooth, curving strokes, and Sam realizes he’s being given wings. The feathers of the wings are drawn down his back, ending near the dimples at the base of his spine. He feels honored, like Castiel is bestowing him with a title.

“You’d make a beautiful angel, Sam. Your soul would translate beautifully into grace.”

Castiel dips the brush into a different color and begins making swirls all over Sam, everywhere the wings are not. He grabs Sam’s hand and begins painting the surging whirls on his hands and fingers, up his arms. Sam finally opens his eyes and looks. They’re red; a deep, heavy shade.

“Your grace would be crimson. Passionate, like yourself.”

Castiel continues painting, weaving all the swirls together, adding other shades of red, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut. He wonders if Castiel can feel his heart beating hard through his skin, feel him flushing hot and feel his blood pumping fast.

The brush slides down nearer and nearer to the base of his spine, and then suddenly Cas is painting on his his ass. Sam tries so hard not to react, but his hands are shaking, and he can’t make them stop. Cas moves down his thighs, and Sam keeps his legs firmly pressed together.

“Grace is more than just energy. It’s the soul of an angel, its spirit and livelihood.”

Cas embellishes a few more whirls on Sam, flicking the paintbrush at the end of each one. He finishes with a hum and then says,

“Could you turn over, Sam? I’d like to paint your chest.”

Sam’s eyes shoot open. If he turns over, Castiel will see that he is obviously turned on by the painting. He stammers out the best he can,

“Well, I, I’d really rather not.”

He can almost hear Cas frowning. He sets the paintbrush down on the newspaper with a crinkle, and then rubs his hands on a paper towel.

“You don’t need to be ashamed of your nudity, Sam.”

It’s at this point that Sam realizes that if he doesn’t turn over he’ll be in just as much of a predicament as if he does. Castiel begins to speak just as Sam turns himself over on the towel.

“A body is merely—oh.” Castiel’s brow furrows some. “You are aroused.”

Sam, mortified, covers his eyes with the back of his hand and smears paint on the bridge of his nose. He tries to think of an excuse, any reason at all that he would be turned on other than the fact that Castiel had been touching his naked skin. He can feel his cock rest against his hip, and he knows Castiel can see it, plain as day. This seems to make everything infinitely worse. Momentarily, he wonders why he agreed to this, why he thought this would be a good idea. He concludes that his attraction to Castiel was at least part of the reason why he’d accepted, but also entirely the reason he was in this situation.

He begins to open his mouth to speak, but Castiel beats him to it.

“You’ll make a fine canvas anyway.”

Sam wants to protest, somewhere in his being he knows that he does, but his body won’t let him. He settles for watching Castiel. He dips his current paintbrush into brown paint and begins laying down long, firm strokes in the center of Sam’s abdomen. He continues this motion for a while until he moves to dip his paintbrush again. When Sam looks down at his chest, he sees the sturdy trunk of a tree and its branches. Cas starts to paint the leaves in quick, shuddered strokes, and Sam watches until the brush skirts over his nipple.

It sends a jolt through him, and Sam lets his head drop back onto the bed again, deciding that paying as little attention as he can will be best. When Cas paints over his other nipple, Sam can feel his dick jerk and leak a blurt of precome sticky against his skin. There is no way that Castiel could have missed it, but Sam silently thanks god that Cas says nothing about it.

This is getting wildly out of hand, but there is next to nothing Sam can say about it that won’t just make the situation worse. He feels Cas lift the brush and then press it back against him, fresh, cold paint on the bristles.

“A fig tree,” Cas explains, painting more circles of what Sam can now assume to be figs, “was the tree in the Garden of Eden with which Lucifer tempted Eve. I was not there to witness this act, but it served only as the beginning of Lucifer’s rebellion.”

Sam lets out a sigh and pictures Lucifer taking the form of a snake. He tries not to think of Lucifer often, but he always feels like there is a part of him nestled inside of his mind.

“The Garden was paradise. It was perfect. After Adam and Eve were expelled, it grew wild and uncultivated.” The brush moves in rapid twisting motions against his stomach. “Like the rest of the world, it was destroyed during the flood.”

The growing tendrils of paint begin to snake downward, and Sam grows anxious. A curve of paint licks smoothly over the jut of his hipbone, trailing dangerously near to his cock. He feels the subtle drag of Castiel’s fingertips against his skin when Cas tilts the brush at a sharp angle, and Sam thinks that he’s going to jump out of his skin. He almost wants to, he really does.

Cas is painting around Sam’s other hipbone when his wrist brushes against Sam’s cock. Sam gasps, loud and heavy sound bouncing off the walls, and when he opens his eyes Cas is staring right at him.

“I’m sorry, I—” Sam starts to apologize for his body, for the way it’s behaving in the presence of Castiel’s hands and fingers, but Cas cuts him off.

“Can I touch you?” he asks earnestly.

“You— what?” It isn’t processing for Sam. He’s almost sure Castiel is asking to touch him, to touch him. He wants it so bad he can’t think straight.

“Can I touch you?” he says again, a bit more pointedly, and this time he gestures at Sam’s dick with the tip of the paintbrush.

Sam feels his whole body flush red, his skin feels hot, aching and burning. He’s almost certain Castiel can see it, even through the layers of paint. If Cas is asking this, it means that, at least to some degree, he’s attracted to Sam like Sam is attracted to him. What’s the harm in it, in consenting?

“Yes, yes.” Sam breathes, bordering on frantic.

Sam feels the first tentative touch and it’s like fire. Castiel’s hand is hot and sure and there’s almost nothing Sam wants more right now. The touch courses through him, tentative stroke, and sparks down his spine, incendiary. He lets his eyes flutter shut, lets himself feel Cas’s hand wrapped loosely around him.

After mere moments, it feels like seconds, much too short, the touch is gone. An instant after that, the touch is replaced by the cool stroke of wet paint on the bristles of Castiel’s brush. Sam jerks, the chilly moisture unexpected on his hot skin. He huffs out a heady moan. This is not what he wanted, but it will do all the same.

The brush feels even better on the velvety skin of his cock than it ever did on the skin of his back. Cas swipes the bristles over the flare of the head and Sam has to bite his lip to stop himself from groaning obscenities. He’s oversensitive, and every touch feels magnified by a thousand. His cock leaks a drop of precome, and Castiel’s brush slides through it and paints it down the side.

“I think the color suits you. It’s a virile shade. Appropriate, don’t you think?”  
He can hear the smirk in Castiel’s voice, and he wonders if Cas planned this, if this was his intention all along. Sam doesn’t mind a bit, not when he’s being touched like this. It’s good, the softness of the brush with the smooth paint on his sensitive skin, but he wants touch, he wants Cas.

“Cas, please, please—I, god, touch me.”

Sam can hear the brush being thrown to the ground, clinking against the jars and clattering against something wooden, and then Castiel’s weight sinks onto him, thick thighs straddling his. Castiel’s hand wraps around him, and Sam cries out, no inhibitions. It’s fast and dirty, Cas stroking him, paint and precome slicking the way.

Sam’s paint-covered hands fist in the towel he’s on, and he knows it doesn’t matter anymore, because they’ve gotten paint everywhere, all over the floor and the bedsheets and Castiel himself. He can’t help it, he wants to touch Cas, so he slides his hands up the back of Castiel’s t-shirt, feeling the smooth muscles and his knobby spine. The look Cas is giving him is near indecipherable, smoldering and knowing, tiniest hint of a smirk playing across his lips.

Cas leans forward, and his lips hover over Sam’s. Sam doesn’t even hesitate, he cranes his neck up and kisses Cas. The paint smeared on Sam’s face smudges against Castiel’s, the paint becoming their union. Castiel’s tongue flickers against his, and Sam groans a warm breath into Castiel’s mouth.

Castiel’s hand works faster now, thumbing over the slit, and Sam’s hips are bucking into the sensation. Everywhere they touch is marked by paint, and Castiel is almost as messy as Sam. Cas twists his wrist, flicks it on the upstroke, and Sam feels his toes go numb. He starts to gasp in short bursts, and his orgasm surprises him. Sam shouts Castiel’s name as he comes all over his own stomach.

His chest is heaving, and Sam feels like he’s buzzing all over. He feels overexerted, oversensitive. Fingertips ghost on his chest, and it’s almost too much. Castiel’s fingers swirl through Sam’s release, smearing it against the painted fig tree.

“My intention for this evening was merely to get you to open yourself up. I did not expect such a positive reaction.” He slides a smear of come through a fig, obscuring and erasing it. “Sam?”

Sam lifts his head and hums in response, gets a good look at Castiel. He looks debauched, paint splotches and smears all over him, wet spots of Sam’s come on his t-shirt, lips red and kiss bitten. Castiel is beautiful in a way Sam had never realized.

“Perhaps next time you could paint on me instead.”


End file.
